Tag: fragments

(alas, the notebooks keep filling…but the time to type does not avail)

Deviser

If I. If something stirred, was stirring. The dying. Any of us. Were something stirring. For me. If I. The lonely. Any of us. The longing. The longing lonely. Were something stirring. Were I. If I.

If only. Could be any. If one. If only. If I. For me. An other. Any of us. A stirring. I, only dying lonely longing one. If. A stirring. An other. Someone to speak “we.” To say “you.” A whispered “us.” For me.

If I.

–

What would I (if I, if other) say, if something stirred, if stirring an other, some other who, who might say “you,” “we,” whisper “us,” something stirring then, what would I say. If I. If you or we, I whisper “us,” stirring still, what would I say?

–

When might a story begin? Who could start the unknown? Only language. Perhaps only language knows what can’t be said. What is yet to exist. Or may not. Ever. What is that to me? If I. If indeed that is what I do.

–

Touching other to make us. If I. If other. Then a voice, a touch, an extra, an excess, we. If you. If I. What is story to that? How so?

–

From anywhere: impermanence. If an other. If I. Some story’s beginning, how begun. If there were a sound, as it were, so to speak.

Like this:

…yet another example of negotiating tools and context. The previous post it seemed natural, as if I reached into the surround in order to work through something, reveal or discover something I hunched toward. For me this is often why reading, why conversation, why activity – in order for something to emerge, perhaps unsubmerge, for perhaps…

As I sat to write the other day, I recognized my reaching (a little more). That because 4 colors of pen were available… because they fill my surround when I am annotating texts I read… more voices seemed to join the conversation. Perhaps intoned by the colors, perhaps offering myself other conversations, altering access, even as the shape of the page contains my possibility. Or evokes it.

Anyway… the notebook notions tincture now… and I – both follow and concoct…

“words are drying out” – Franco “Bifo” Berardi

…and for her,

whose face

I held in my hands

a few hours, whom I gave back

only to keep holding the space where she was,

–

I light

a small fire in the rain”

– Galway Kinnell

“Who will ever be able, in this heap of dust, to tell the words from their underpinnings of paper?”

– Edmond Jabes

“Life is the search for the impossible via the useless…no one truly knows how to know and thinking confuses everything.”

– Fernando Pessoa

“man has no other way of living ‘now’ at his disposition besides the possibility to realize it through the insertion of discourse in the world”

– Emile Benveniste

“…if philosophy can be defined at all…”

– Silvia Jonas

“THE DREAM’S NAVEL”

or, Troubling Abstraction

or, refusing reduction

or, peircing the generic

There was a fox with a beautiful tail. And wondrously colorful. Like a dream, but tangibly perceptible.

– A dream then, while you’re thick in it –

No, an actual. Not a virtual. An imagining. Beauty.

And this, it is said, is philosophic thought… the questioning and caress of what is, unknown.

– Perhaps unknowable? –

What I do not know. Have not experienced. Know this way.

– Imagining. –

Experience. Experiencing. Almost like a dream, but languaged now, i.e. controlled, labeled, made discrete and symbolically communicable…signified. Not that.

Again

An other

Anew

– Something, anyway. Try again. Become. –

To cross. Trans-late. Waver boundaries of meaning. Only to continue discretely, or to discretely continue. To work at the edge… both/and versus either/or versus verses… Weaving. Text-ure.

Ever again, always another other, anew, again… What is: difference, and repetition. Never the same, almost, again

– What? –

Someone or something is living. Is being. Perhaps simply is. Perhaps that… if only we knew. If anyone could.

– Imagine –

Perhaps.

****

Someone (something?) said. Set down, symbolized, spoke… suggested…

– Something to work with – from, into toward, away, perhaps. –

Perhaps.

Dip and scratch, gesture, limit, now one, now another, both? The thread, the fox’s multi-colored tail. Needle. Point. Pierce. But the thread connects above/below, under/over, in/out, alike… just traversing, transforming, betweening, continuous. Air, breath, blood, wave, particle, motion, fluid… Almost a point-of-meeting, a multi-sided trace, not a touch. Not touching, perhaps. But touching’s not a point of contact. Where do you feel the touch of your hand to a leaf? The touch of your hand to yourself…?

There was a fox with a beautiful tail. Like a dream, not quite limit or form or shape… potential, like beauty, like amost…AND… Like a resonant word meaning this and more also, perhaps non-compliant, unresolved

This I find I cannot answer. It is irrational. Perhaps to stir and sense? Dis- or un-cover? “Strife” (from Ancient conceptions of the term). Turbulence. That something rather than nothing? Not to have one’s hands folded on one’s lap? (Dostoevsky). How should I know? It’s irrational.

In other words, if I (one) reach out – lash, swipe, caress, call, correspond, text, touch, encounter or engage – an Other (one)… all will be disturbed… it’s the nature of contact between living beings: landscapes, art, humans, animals, spaces, times, words, events. Everything alters at encounter. Period.

If I (or we) are available (or needy) and therefore present ourselves (vulnerably) to a reality (actuality, happenstance, opportunity, occurrence) everything changes.

Out of the woods I desire – not to be “existing”, not to crave “existence.” I do not want any THING. SOMEthing. I am simply wanting to be-ing… indefinable, indescribable, occurring, happening, all-live – not staid enough, locatable or timed enough to be characterized, apportioned, described and named. No! I (for one) am wanting to be happenING, impossible to capture, occur-ING, become-ING, vital not repeatable, unique not typified, tabulated, calculated or classified.

Martin responds, wondering. Curious as to that which it applies, or whom, or what. Contemplating reference. Filled with questions. Martin says, “yes,” almost under his breath.

Elf shrugs. Elf walks on.

Martin follows, thinking, looking at leaves falling into blades of grass, alerted by the shushing and darting of squirrels, saddened at the amplified pffft of cars passing by. Wishing for silence. Wondering if Elf will speak a further word or two. Sensing like a dowsing rod for meanings.

Walks on. Shuffles. Walks on.

Martin, too.

There’s a relative silence from the two of them – these humans wandering across a concreted trail. Sure there’s the sound of their footfalls, scuffles, even some noise in the pause of it. Or the noise of the absence of noise. But you’d have to be different to hear the breathing, the heart pulse, the slide of muscles and blood. As far as humans-in-environs go, the pair presents retraction.

Hard to say for soil. The squares composing sidewalk must suffer pressure, absorbed by the earth beneath and shared out through verberations for miles. Hard to say for air. Full-grown males, plodding forth like prows along a rickety line-of-motion has to be pushing particles around, making waves. Nothing gives report.

Like this:

“And in life, meaning is not instantaneous. Meaning is discovered in what connects, and cannot exist without development. Without a story, without an unfolding, there is no meaning. Facts, information, do not in themselves constitute meaning. Facts can be fed into a computer and become factors in a calculation. No meaning, however, comes out of computers, for when we give meaning to an event, that meaning is a response, not only to the known, but also to the unknown: meaning and mystery are inseparable, and neither can exist without the passing of time. Certainty may be instantaneous; doubt requires duration: meaning is born of the two. An instant photographed can only acquire meaning insofar as the viewer can read into it a duration extending beyond itself. When we find a photograph meaningful, we are lending it a past and a future.”

Like this:

It might be Autumn. It takes awhile to know (here). In any case, the confusion is enormous, is bewildering, is sometimes stultifying.

Multiple persons – some who know me and some who seem like they do – all seem confident about it. About the book. About that “there is a book in me” just waiting to be born or written, composed or transcribed – however a “book” comes to be. I am certain of none of it, excepting that I love books, in fact I crave well-connected letters as much as (although differently from) my desire for love, for intimacy (or “satisfaction” – itself a kind of surprise and delighted exhaustion), for meaningful connections (being understood, acknowledged, beloved, and so on). Strange beasts, we. I. I-we.

The “I” is “we” if you take into account all the variance – the inconsistencies and variety and contextual divergences. “Bewildering” is the word I most usually apply to this business or blessing of living… of being alive.

Maybe that’s what this is about, like birthdays. The strange pivoting celebration of another year undergone or accomplished, simultaneous with its absence and cessation. Living, dying – same thing? The introduction that serves as farewell. A tightly romance.

Does “paradox” indicate two apparently incompatible things being the case at once? These are not flip-sides of a coin, but two things on the same surface, depending. Living/dying, suffering/joy, love. Now as before and after in the same instant, so to speak. I will always be battling the incapacity of words as the only things capable. Communicative paradox – language as, at once, in the same sphere/realm/scale/reality – that which reveals and conceals, says and does not say, speaks and remains silent, clarifies and obfuscates, signals and misleads…fails and succeeds.

So that every effort of greeting also grieves, and each introduction is yet another form of farewell.